Don't Sit Under the Apple Tree
by dudeurfugly
Summary: George Luz was never one to turn down a bet, especially with an engaged woman involved. Luz/OC
1. On Assignment

**Disclaimer: I don't own Band of Brothers and I mean no disrespect with his work of fiction. I do own all my original characters. **

**A/N: Okay, so…this plot bunny has been with me for quite awhile, and I finally had to write it. Just as a fair warning, it might get an M rating in later chapters. It depends. Anyway, I hope you like it. **

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><p><strong>CHAPTER ONE<strong>

Like the gentleman he was, Christopher McNally walked through the bustling airport with his fiancée's carry-on bag in tow, business suit jacket draped across one arm, his eyes constantly straying to the expensive gold watch around his wrist. He immediately paused in the middle of the crowd once he noticed she was no longer at his side for the third time in a matter of ten minutes, and spinning around in a circle, finally caught sight of her several feet back. She was standing off to the side, smartly dressed in her regulation Class A's, focusing her camera on a young couple—the young man was clad in Navy whites; he wasn't sure whether this was a goodbye or a homecoming—in the middle of a rather passionate kiss. Christopher heaved a sigh, glanced at his watch again, and took lengthy, rapid strides to reach her.

"You're going to miss your flight, Grace," he said pointedly, tapping her on the shoulder. "And I have to be at work in a half hour."

She lowered the camera, casting a look of pure longing toward the couple. "Will you kiss me like that?" she asked as they started walking again.

"What?"

"You heard me. We won't be seeing each other 'til God-knows-when, and I'll need a decent kiss to tide me over. It's bad enough you wouldn't touch me last night."

He looked around him quickly, embarrassed. "Must we discuss this in public? It's nobody else's business but ours."

"It can't be anybody's business if there's no _business_ going on," Grace protested.

Christopher gave her a stern look while they neared the gate Grace would be departing through. People were milling about, some dressed affluently, a few wearing uniforms, which was a common sight in airports and train stations across the world nowadays. Grace took her bag from him and stuffed her camera into it gingerly, zipping it shut.

"You be careful over there," was Christopher's warning.

"I'm not the one doing the fighting. I'll be fine," she reassured him, closing the small space between them. "I'm just there to observe."

"In the middle of a warzone," he answered flatly.

"Occupational hazard," she countered with a mischievous smirk.

Her fingers danced along the collar of his shirt and rested on his tie, which she smoothed out unnecessarily before using it to tug him closer. She could tell that Christopher was getting flustered; his cheeks were reddening the slightest bit, and he hurriedly cleared his throat.

"Don't do anything stupid, you hear?" he said, avoiding the playful, yearning expression in her green eyes. This was not the time nor the place for such forward advances. He could feel sweat breaking out on his skin the more she pressed herself closer to him, which was becoming humanly impossible. Christopher continued glancing around him, paranoia creeping in at the thought of others treating such a private moment like a Broadway show.

"We're getting married first thing when you get back. I want my bride in one piece."

"I promise I will come home to you in tip-top shape," Grace answered. Her hand still curled around his tie, she leaned in so her lips were practically touching the sensitive skin of his ear. Her warm breath tickled against his neck. "Maybe then you'll make love to me, hmm?"

Christopher somehow got the impression that she enjoyed making him squirm in public. She knew from early on in their relationship that he wasn't one for open displays of affection in front of others, and yet she insisted on doing improper things such as this. Once Grace was in front of him again, he appeased her desires by placing a rather chaste kiss upon her full lips. Grace kept her frown to herself; it was no use to fight a losing battle. She would have expected a little more from her fiancé, just this once, when he was well aware that they wouldn't be seeing each other for quite some time. All she wanted was something to savor, to hold onto and think back on while she was dashing around battlefields in Europe taking photographs. She shouldn't have built her hopes up—Grace knew Christopher wasn't an overly-affectionate man.

It didn't mean he didn't love her any less. She knew this. She was sure of it.

"Be sure to write," Christopher said. "Let me know you're safe."

"Every chance I get," Grace told him. "I love you."

He smiled, blue eyes sparkling. "I love you, too."

Exhausted and jet-lagged beyond belief, Grace found herself ambling along the streets of the quaint town of Aldbourne, England hours later. She contemplated just falling into bed and sleeping until further notice, but this was her first night overseas and she had too much excited energy to compete with. She'd already been billeted in regiment headquarters, since the officers in charge didn't find it proper for her to be boarding in horse stalls or nearby homes with the men.

Grace knew better and took it as a way for them to keep an eye on her every move, seeing as she was the only women bearing the 101st Airborne Division patch on her arm. Grace hadn't expected them to give it to her; in fact, she felt unworthy brandishing the screaming eagle like a badge of honor when she wasn't one of the soldiers who had fought to defend that reputation, and would not be fighting for it during this war. But, orders were orders, and as long as she was attached to the division, namely Easy Company, she would be permitted to wear it.

Grace heard an uproarious hum of conversation and laughter emanating from a little pub, rays of warm golden light from the inside spilling out into the road. She figured it was a good a place as any to spend the evening; fresh from their battles in Normandy and Carentan, Grace was positive she would find some soldiers of Easy Company wherever she ended up, blowing off steam and unwinding. Grace almost wished she would have brought her camera along on her walk.

Pushing open the creaky door of the pub—the Blue Boar, according to the sign—Grace slid inside and was instantly assailed with the odor of cigarettes and beer. The place was swarmed with soldiers like she knew it would be, all of them in their Class A's with new badges and jump wings pinned to their chests. She spotted some civilians mingling, but the pub was inundated with paratroopers, which she guessed were their usual customers.

She suddenly felt horribly out of place and self conscious, as the only uniformed woman in the company of combat veterans. Grace wanted to cover up the patch on her arm from prying eyes. _It's not mine, I didn't earn it, _she thought. She avoided everyone and quietly made her way to the bar to get a drink, knowing that perhaps having some alcohol in her system would boost her confidence for the time being.

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><p>George Luz happened to glance away from the game of darts currently in progress with his fellow paratroopers, eyes wandering the pub while they made idle chatter and bets in between throws.<p>

One second was all it took.

In the sea of dark brown and khaki, his eyes caught a glimpse of her. Also dressed in a uniform, it was the shock of bright red hair that caught his attention first. She seemed extremely uncomfortable in the way she kept smoothing out her skirt or running her fingers across the Screaming Eagle patch that was stitched onto her uniform jacket, like she was hopelessly lost or just very overwhelmed.

George found this quite endearing.

It was then that he noticed from the distance between them that she had legs for days underneath that skirt, accentuated by the heels on her delicate feet. She was curvy, with a face that wasn't easily forgotten. There was something almost innocent about her features, which rivaled the way her hips swayed as she weaved in and out of the crowd toward the bar. It intrigued him to no end that a beautiful skirt like her was wearing the division patch—what sort of business did she have here?

He watched her order a drink. She leaned against the bar, beer glass in hand, like she was content to stay fixed there for the remainder of the night. She looked so uncomfortable it was almost too painful for George to watch. He decided he needed to make it his business to help her loosen up a bit and swaggered over to the bar with all the grace and poise of a drunken pirate. She didn't say anything when he rested an elbow on the counter and blatantly stared at her, grinning.

"Why's a dame like you looking so uptight?" he asked.

Grace peered over and found a dark-haired, dark-eyed paratrooper gazing at her with a kind of dreamy expression only a man who was inebriated could muster. She wasn't an idiot to know exactly what he was after, and she wasn't going for it.

There was trouble in that smirk of his.

"The name's George Luz. And, let me tell ya, it's the only name worth learning in this place."


	2. Placing Bets

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything, I swear. And I would never mean any disrespect to the real veterans of Easy Company.**

**A/N: A HUGE shout-out to **bayumlikedayum**—this chapter is for you! And thank you to everyone else who read and reviewed! You'll be happy to know I have a couple chapters already typed up and ready to be posted. Enjoy this one!**

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><p><strong>CHAPTER TWO<strong>

Oh, he was a smooth one—or at least making the attempt to be.

George still had that lopsided smirk on his face, which left Grace wondering how many beers it had taken to get to this point because clearly he was one of those borderline-sloppy, happy, lovey-dovey drunks. He let his gaze wander across her curvy, yet tall, frame. She had a smattering of freckles on her cheeks and across the bridge of her nose, weaving nonsense patterns under emerald-green eyes. George's vision soon strayed way below hers, which earned him a disapproving frown.

Grace looked him squarely in those half-lidded brown eyes. "I'm engaged."

He didn't seem impressed. "Ta who?" George slurred.

"None of your business, soldier," Grace snapped.

In an instant, George was horribly mistaken about her virtuousness and apparent uptight demeanor. Under the freckle-faced exterior, there wasn't anything innocent or stiff about this young woman. She had an attitude, which George had to admit he enjoyed, so the lopsided grin stayed put.

"Funny…I don't see a ring."

"It's safe at home with my fiancé. You'll just have to take my word for it, won't you?"

She was feisty. He liked this—a lot. George didn't know if it was his own thoughts or the influence of the alcohol (probably both), but coming over here to talk to this young skirt was definitely the greatest of all ideas.

"Maybe, maybe not," he teased. "We'll see how the night goes."

Grace shook her head and took a huge gulp of her beer to mask the strange feeling that had washed over her swiftly from that one comment.

"You certainly seem very sure of yourself."

"Well, so do you," he replied, emptying the contents of his beer glass. He tried to place it on the counter behind them but missed, nearly dropping the glass onto the floor. George wavered a bit before finally slamming it on top of the wooden surface.

Grace didn't understand. "How do you mean?"

"Walkin' into a bar full-a handsome troopers with an invisible ring on your finger. 's awfully brave, ya know."

Grace had to give him some credit for trying, although she'd never admit that to him aloud.

"I have a man waiting on me at home who has a little more class than you do."

He chuckled. "Lemme take a guess and say he's a lousy 4-F."

"Certainly not."

"Nothin' he does could possibly compare to a roomful of paratroopers."

"I have the utmost respect for what you do for our country."

Grace didn't think that lopsided smirk could get any more crooked, but in fact, it did. She wasn't sure now if that was supposed to be a veiled innuendo in there somewhere. With the way this George Luz character had sauntered over to greet her, Grace wouldn't have been surprised.

"You won't be fightin' off the guys for long," he stated matter-of-factly.

"And by _guys_, you mean _you_, right?"

"I might."

She took yet another large gulp of beer, which was becoming a new automatic response to social situations that made her squirm. It was ridiculous, but Grace couldn't exactly help it. For the life of her, she couldn't remember a time when she'd had such a biting, cynical conversation with a man. Christopher would never in a million years slip _any_ innuendoes into a sentence as easily as George Luz.

"You sure move fast."

"We're in the middle of a war," he said, like she didn't know this already, "Can't afford ta take things slow." He paused, looking away, distracted for the moment, by his beer glass that was no longer sitting on the counter. "…Lemme buy us another round, huh?"

"I'd rather not," Grace said quickly. She had yet to drain the contents of her glass, anyway. "You'll get me intoxicated enough to do something morally undignified, which I'll end up regretting. Then you'll go running off to tell the fellas about your latest—"

"Listen," he said seriously, interrupting. "I may have a devilish streak, but I ain't that kind of man, okay?"

Silence settled between them again. Grace finally emptied her glass and set it down beside her. George was mulling around the thought of asking her if she would really regret it, but he held his tongue. He, for the first time in the course of their exchange of words, was caught off guard by her next proposition.

"So…do you want to place a bet on this?"

"On what?"

"Me avoiding you during my stay with the company."

George gaped at her, recognizing the spark in her green eyes. She was trouble, too. He knew it. There was a playfulness buried in that attitude.

"I don't gamble with dames."

Grace laughed loudly for the first time since she had arrived in England. The sound made something within George soar, and he decided there and then that this skirt should never stop laughing. It was music to his inebriated ears.

"_What_?"

"How wrong you are," Grace chuckled.

Realization slowly dawned on his brain, which was by this point, swimming in alcohol. "Didn't mean it like that. I meant—"

"I know what you meant," Grace assured him. "And I have two brothers. I'm not afraid of a little gambling, soldier."

"You serious?" he asked.

Grace fought off the warning voice in her head that told her this was definitely a bad idea and nodded. It was just a stupid bet to make things interesting while she was here. No harm done. At the end of this entire thing, she'd be richer, depending upon how much money was at stake. Money she could use for the wedding or their honeymoon…

"All right. _All right_, now we're talkin'. I bet you a whole month's jump pay you'll be forgettin' all about your classy_ fiancé_ in my presence."

Grace thought back to all she had read on the Airborne. Jump pay…she was positive they received fifty dollars extra a month for going into the paratroops.

She raised an eyebrow. "You're going to waste fifty dollars?"

"I ain't wasting nothing. Cheap price to pay for a gal like you. Not that I'll be payin' it."

Grace couldn't help the smile that spread across her lips. "You are one confident bastard."

"Hey, I try," George shrugged. "It's all part of my charm."

Green eyes rolled sarcastically underneath long, dark eyelashes. "I don't know how on earth you expect to win this bet if you haven't even asked for my name, soldier."

And then she walked away, meandering toward the door without saying anything else, not even goodbye. George watched her retreating from him until her red hair and long legs disappeared behind it. He lit a much-needed cigarette and took a lengthy, deep drag.

"Well, shit," he muttered, looking slack-jawed at the closed door. George gave a moment's thought to going after her, but he dismissed it—he didn't want to press his luck any further tonight. Instead, he ordered himself another beer and swayed off in search of someone who was willing to play a game of darts.

Outside, Grace lingered on the curb, for reasons unknown to her. Why was she waiting? Did she _actually_ think he would come stumbling out after her? Grace inwardly kicked herself for such thoughts. She didn't need some sloppy drunk with a crooked grin and chocolate brown eyes to occupy her time when she had Christopher already betrothed to her back in New York City. She didn't.

Heaving a sigh, she threw another glance at the door. When it didn't open, Grace finally stepped off the curb and headed back to where she was billeted, shoving the nagging feeling of disappointment to the furthest, darkest corners of her mind.


	3. Mistaken Identity

**Disclaimer: Again, I don't own anything related to Band of Brothers. Luz isn't mine, which is disappointing, haha. I only own Grace. **

**A/N: Thank you to those who reviewed. I really hope people are reading this and enjoying it. Please, **_**please**_** let me know how I'm doing—every review helps encourage me to continue with the story!**

**CHAPTER THREE**

Word traveled fast among the men once they learned of Grace's presence within the company. By mid-week, most of the soldiers had caught sight of her around Aldbourne, always off to the side, snapping carefully captured photos and taking small notes of names, places, and dates. Grace made sure to stay out of the way and reserved, like some kind of transparent figure. While the men were more than happy to have her around, the higher-ups in regiment were continuing to monitor her like a hawk. Grace knew they weren't happy to have her along wherever they ended up on the battlefields of Europe.

It had taken a lot of persuasion and promises like "you'll never know I'm here" and "I'll stay out of the line of fire" and "I swear I'll do my job and won't cause any trouble" to get here. She wasn't a soldier, therefore they didn't like her being attached to the division. Grace was a risk. But with her photography skills, and the Airborne emerging as a new but strong force, the officers figured she could be of some use to document history in the making. Grace herself had heard of soldiers carrying cameras with them, who were labeled as combat photographers. Never had a woman followed a company of men into battle to get photographic records of their advances.

Grace was determined to be the first.

She just wished the higher-ups would trust her more. She wasn't an irresponsible child. She had been disciplined by the Army, too, though that hadn't worked out in the end—it wasn't the right fit. This was. Half a week here and Grace felt exhilarated, like she was going to make a difference. It was a weighty responsibility to hold when she was put in charge of recording history as it happened, but she was loving every second of it. Grace saw, day after day, how hard these men worked.

Easy Company was a force to be reckoned with. There was something exceptional about this group of paratroopers.

It was Thursday by the time Grace was directly approached by one of the paratroopers, whose name she recalled was Frank. Frank Perconte, a short, dark-haired Italian who was almost always in the company of George Luz himself. She had been creatively avoiding George since they'd met on Saturday at the Blue Boar, though she had spotted him admiring her from afar during training and calisthenics. She pretended not to notice him showing off for her, as if it would sway her to lose the bet.

"Hey, you're the one George was talkin' to at the bar this weekend, right?"

He was a smooth one, too, wasn't he? She could have said something smart in response, but decided not to.

"That's me," she answered. She busied herself with packing up her camera and other supplies while Frank stood over her, exhausted from the day's training. "Did Mr. Luz send you over here to interrogate me?"

"Somethin' like that."

"If he had the guts he would've just walked over himself."

Frank shrugged indifferently and plopped down on the grass opposite her. "I heard you're sticking around with the company."

"For now. The officers don't seem to like it too much."

He waved them off. "Don't matter. You're not doin' any harm…and the fellas like you."

"_George_ likes me," Grace corrected him with a knowing look.

"Yeah, he's a bit of a skirt-chaser," Frank agreed, laughing.

"When he's drunk, or—"

"It's an all-the-time kind of thing."

"He seems like the type," Grace replied, zipping up her bag. She got up to her full height and Frank followed, casting a glimpse at his fellow soldiers congregated across the lawn. "What does he want?"

"Your name."

"Of course. And he had to send you to ask? That's classy. What, does he need a few beers in him first before he'll talk to me?"

Frank shrugged again. "Who knows, with him…"

"Tell him it's Edith."

"Sure thing," Frank responded. He ran off toward the group, shouting a "Nice to meet you!" over his shoulder. Grace slung her camera bag on her arm and strolled off, shaking her head. She thought of getting a light lunch in town, maybe at that nice little café again that she had discovered—

"Wait up!"

Only George could disrupt her daydreams of a quiet lunch. Grace didn't even honor him with a backward glance. She kept walking.

"Edith!"

Grace snickered. It served him right for apparently lacking the male parts and courage to saunter up to her and ask her name. Not that she had been waiting almost a week for him to inquire about it. Not that she cared. Grace ignored him, and he didn't call after her anymore. She ended up in that little café, enjoying the food and the comforting smiles of the middle-aged, motherly woman behind the counter, whom she had come to know during her frequent visits.

Grace was halfway through her meal when—of all people in this sleepy town—George Luz breezed through the threshold, hair mussed and PT shirt clinging to his damp, olive skin. She nearly dropped her fork at his hasty arrival.

"Edith," he panted, running his long fingers through already matted hair. It was now sticking up in ridiculous directions; so much so that Grace had to stifle a giggle or two. She tried very hard not to notice the muscles flexing underneath that shirt, reminding herself that Christopher would not pleased if she admired other men's physiques.

"You followed me here?"

In a blink of an eye, out-of-breath George Luz transformed into sweet-talker George Luz. With his usual swagger, the perpetual skirt-chaser advanced on her table and made himself comfortable in the chair across from 'Edith.'

"'Course I did, sweetheart," he answered.

And there was that damn lopsided smirk again. Grace had to restrain herself from kicking him beneath the table for using it.

"Don't _sweetheart_ me."

"Ohoho, touchy today, aren't we?" he joked. He stared at her half-eaten plate of food with a ravenous expression. "This any good?"

"Best in Aldbourne."

"You couldn't have possibly eaten everywhere in Aldbourne."

"Shut up, smartass."

"Boy, you've got a mouth on you." George appeared to be amused.

"You have no idea."

He started eating bits of leftover food off Grace's plate—which she hadn't exactly been finished with—without asking permission. She didn't bother to stop him; the effort would have most likely been useless. It was strange to her now how easily they spoke to one another, sarcastic quips darting back and forth between them like this was an every day occurrence. Like they'd known each other for longer than a week.

"Any particular reason why you've been avoiding me since Saturday, or are you just afraid to lose our bet?"

"I could ask you the same," Grace countered, brow raised. "Very nice of you to send a message boy to do your bidding. _Charming_, Mr. Luz." She paused. "I've been busy all week."

"Cut it out with that _Mr._ stuff, all right? If I don't get to call you sweetheart, you ain't callin' me _Mr. Luz_. Makes me sound like a goddamn teacher. Which is not where I want this…_relationship_ to go."

"This _relationship_ is nothing but platonic."

He clearly wasn't convinced. "If you say so."

"Will you _stop it_ with that smirk?"

"Not a chance," George said smugly. "Not until you quit flirting. And you said you were engaged. You're losing real fast."

"I _am_ engaged," Grace declared. "And I am _not_ flirting."

"What'd ya call this?"

"Right now? An argument."

"No, no, no." George leaned back in his chair. "At the pub. If I remember correctly, you're the one who decided on this whole bet."

"_That_ was friendly banter," Grace said rather defensively. "_You_ were the one flirting."

"I ain't denying it. But you, on the other hand—"

"Will that be all, Grace?" the middle-aged woman who owned the café, Margaret, asked, momentarily interrupting their argument over whether they had been arguing or not. Unfortunately, she had to use Grace's real name, when Grace had hoped to pull him along on this notion of a false name for as long as she could.

"Yes, thank you."

Margaret pulled the plate from underneath George's hands. He didn't even care that the remainder of the food had been taken from him—he was too busy looking confused. The perplexed façade George was now sporting made Grace feel instantly satisfied despite the accusations he'd shot at her a minute beforehand. It worried her how effortlessly she _might have_ been flirting; Christopher never really did, with the exception of the first few times they met.

"_Grace_? You said your name was Edith!"

She laughed, though it was mostly drowned out by the scraping of her chair against the floor as she got up.

"You should have asked me yourself," she told him. "Then maybe I wouldn't have lied."

For the second time, she left George dumbstruck and felt quite proud of herself, although she didn't have the slightest idea why.


	4. London Bound

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything! Well, Grace is mine. And as this is a work of fiction, I don't mean to disrespect the real life veterans of E. Company.**

**A/N: Enjoy! Leave a review and let me know how I'm doing with this, pretty please? Reviews encourage me greatly! **

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><p><strong>CHAPTER FOUR<strong>

_Dearest Christopher,_

_How are things back in the City? I have been getting along just fine here in England. I am more content in my current assignment than I have been for any others before. You'll be thrilled to know I have kept myself out of trouble, and where I am stationed at the moment is a wonderful opportunity for gorgeous picture-taking! _

_I love you, and hope to hear back from you soon! _

_Yours,_

_Grace_

The following day, Grace sat underneath the shelter of a tree in the sweltering heat to write out a letter to her fiancé. She knew she should have done this first thing when she arrived, but there hadn't been much to report. Even now, there wasn't anything of import to say to him, other than the fact that she was doing what she had been sent to accomplish. When she set pencil to paper, she found that the words had to be forced out and wondered briefly if it was worth it to send something or just wait until a noteworthy event took place. Then again, she did promise to write, and she knew Christopher was expecting a letter…

Grace was wandering back to the Littlecote house to freshen up after breaking into a sweat just delivering her letter later that afternoon. She walked with her head down against the summer sun and didn't detect George falling into perfect step beside her. He studied her, pleased, to see how long it would take for Grace to realize he was there, watching the wisps of bright red hair that had been swept out of her neat bun by the breeze.

A minute or two later, Grace caught sight of another pair of boots taking precise strides next to her. Emerald green eyes traveled up to meet the mischievous deep brown orbs of the only person she had immediately anticipated it to be.

"Hello, George," she said flatly.

He chuckled. "Jeez, for a photographer, you aren't very observant."

"The sun was in my eyes."

"Yeah, sure. Keep makin' up those excuses."

It was too humid to argue, so instead, Grace questioned in an impatient tone, "What do you want_ now_?"

"Well with that _delightful _attitude,I don't know if I wanna ask you anymore."

"You're insufferable."

"I do my best," George shrugged. "Me and some of the guys are goin' to London this weekend and we thought it'd be nice if we asked you to come with us."

"Such a gentleman, George Luz," Grace taunted.

"Are you coming or not?"

"This isn't a date, soldier. You have to get that through your thick skull now. It's just…I've never been to London before."

"Got it. Bet still stands."

"Of course it does."

"You're going to be out fifty bucks by the time we get back to Aldbourne," George declared.

"And there's that overconfidence again…"

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><p>Bright and early the next morning, Grace and her trusty camera bag were on a train crowded with GI's from all over the world heading for the bustling city of London. She was seated in between two Easy Company guys—Don Malarkey and Babe Heffron, while Skip Muck and Alex Penkala sat across from them. Several rows behind, George was sitting with Joe Toye, Bill Guarnere, Frank Perconte, and Bull Randleman. Once more, Grace felt out of her element accompanying a large group of rowdy paratroopers she barely knew.<p>

Grace had an excellent memory, enough to be able to put faces successfully to names, but she hadn't really sat down and talked with anyone besides George and Frank. That alone had led her to choose her seat on the train wisely—if she was going to be following these men for the duration of the war, it was a good idea to get to know more about them. Also, she wasn't sure she could handle an extended train ride sitting next to George.

She could tell Babe Heffron was side-eying her, too. "Where ya from, doll?" he asked in one of the thickest South Philly accents she had heard, apart from Guarnere's, who's was loud and booming somewhere over her shoulder.

"New York City."

"No kiddin', Skip's from New York," came Malarkey's reply.

"Not the City," Skip corrected hastily. "Upstate. Just outside Buffalo."

She nodded, understanding where he meant. "I'm not really from it originally. I was born in Michigan, but my family and I moved all over the place from time to time. I ended up in New York with my fiancé."

Suddenly, Babe wasn't side-eying her anymore, and a moment of disappointment fell upon those who did not already have girls back home. These guys weren't nearly as relentless as George; the fact that she had an "invisible ring" on her finger as he called it, wasn't going to deter him in the least. He had his eye on her from the moment she stepped into the pub, and even at this very second, he was stealing glances from where he sat. Grace would have been lying if she said she couldn't feel those warm brown eyes staring into the back of her head.

Alex Penkala finally broke the tension with, "There's an unusual abundance of red heads on this side-a the train."

Everyone stared at him, and then Babe, Don, and Grace exchanged looks. Grace suddenly found it hilarious, because it had been one of the strangest things to blurt out just to start up conversation again. But it worked.

"Yeah, I guess you're right," she giggled. "And I think we're all pretty much the same on the ginger-scale."

Skip quirked an eyebrow. "No, you're definitely more ginger."

"Really? Maybe it's the light in here."

"Nah, yours is brighter than Malark's."

"Babe's is somewhere in middle," Alex agreed.

Grace peered over to see Babe running his fingers through his hair, attempting to catch his reflection in the window of the train. On her other side, Don was casting a hard glance at the young woman's hair, which was in a neat bun under her garrison cap. She caught his gaze and smiled, removing the garrison cap and freeing her hair from the bun. Vibrant red tresses tumbled down her back instantly, shimmering in the sun that crept through the window. Grace took a chunk of the end of her hair and held it up to Malarkey's in comparison.

"Malark, she's got you beat by a shade," Skip told him.

"Hey! Red!" an obnoxious voice roared from behind them. Three heads turned to the call, already knowing that George was the source. "What the _fuck_ are you idiots doing over there?"

"Shut up, Luz! You're just jealous we're talkin' to your girl!" Malarkey shouted back.

"_I'm not his girl_!" Grace hollered.

"You will be!"

"I most certainly will_ not_!"

"Do us all a favor and quit lyin' to yourself, huh?" George yelled back.

Grace turned completely around and got up, kneeling on her seat to look at George directly. That spark was back in her eyes—George could tell from the distance between them.

"You are the most _infuriating_ man I have ever met in my entire life! Can't you get your narcissistic head out of your ass for two _goddamn_ seconds and realize that not every _skirt_ that crosses paths with you wants to tear your fucking clothes off? Jesus Christ, you arrogant, sarcastic bastard! Why don't you quit before I send you home to your doghouse with your tail between your damn legs!"

There was an overwhelming flood of "Oooohs" in their part of the train, even from the GI's who were not a part of Easy Company and therefore did not know George Luz personally. A deafening silence followed. Satisfied, Grace slid back into her seat and wore a triumphant grin. Skip and Alex saluted her, impressed.

"_I love you, too, sweetheart_!" was George Luz's reply.

The train erupted into howls of laughter. It dawned on Grace that no matter how many profanities she threw his way, no matter how much she tried to object to his advances, he would always come back for more. He was persistent, stubborn, and cocky. George Luz knew exactly what he wanted, and he was bound and determined to succeed.

Even if it meant breaking the bond of a silly little engagement ring.


	5. Rings and Romantics

**Disclaimer: I don't own Band of Brothers. I mean no disrespect. Grace is mine!**

**A/N: Any reviews would be very much appreciated. Thank you all for reading! Enjoy this chapter, it's the longest one yet, and the fun is only beginning!**

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><p><strong>CHAPTER FIVE<strong>

George quite enjoyed the expression painted on her beautiful face when they stepped into the streets of London. Grace looked like a kid who had just entered the world's largest candy store and immediately went into sensory overload. For the first several minutes, the camera in her hands sat unused, and George observed her eyes sparkling with childish wonderment. And not for the first time since they met, he found Grace to be one of the most endearing human beings he had the pleasure to know. Sure, she was a bit rough around the edges and had a colorful vocabulary worthy of the paratroops, but for once in his life, George felt like he had discovered an equal in the opposing gender.

As far as he was concerned, Grace's precious fiancé back home didn't stand a chance. He just had to make her see that.

After the initial excitement wore off and Grace was able to drink up every detail of their surroundings, she began taking pictures eagerly, stowing away street names and places in the back of her mind to record later when she had a spare moment. She caught candid photos of soldiers in international uniforms she had never seen, some of them with young women hanging off their arms. She focused in on the diverse architecture and cars whizzing by on the roads. In the distance, she snapped her first sight of the Big Ben clock tower.

"Grace!" she heard George yell. "Hey, over here! _Grace_!"

Now that he knew her name, it felt like he was going to soon wear it out. Grace pivoted on her heel to find him standing in the middle of the sidewalk, arms outstretched, only his side profile visible through the camera lens.

"Get a load-a this, huh?"

She now realized that he was standing in such a way that it appeared as though he was pushing against Big Ben, trying to topple it over. He had the most juvenile grin on his face, which made Grace suspect he had been rather destructive as a young boy.

"Take a picture!"

Grace couldn't help but laugh. "All right, hold still." She lowered the camera a little. "Are you going to keep that stupid grin on your face or what? It'll look funnier if you attempt to act like a tough guy."

"_Attempt_?"

"Shut up, wiseass."

George shifted so that one arm was pushing against Big Ben and the other was flexed, like he was showing off his muscles despite that they were unfortunately well hidden under his uniform jacket. His facial expression was stern and very serious, brows knit together above those dark eyes.

It only provoked more laughter from Grace while she took the picture. "Worthy of a pin up magazine," she joked.

He was pleased. "Ya think?"

"No, not at all."

"You_ liked_ it. Don't lie, Gracie."

"Okay, _tough guy_," she answered scathingly.

_Gracie_? Had he actually just called her that? She narrowed her eyes at him, wondering what on earth had possessed to call her by that nickname.

"Or should I say…_Georgie_?"

George made a noise of disgust. "Only my mother calls me that."

"The only person in the world who calls me Gracie is my father, so consider us even."

"Here, lemme get a picture of you."

"What? _No_!"

George tried to make a dive for the camera, but she wrenched it away from him before he could grasp it.

"C'mon, just one," he persisted. "You said it yourself, it's your first time in London. Don't ya want a picture worth rememberin'?"

Grace gave up—he did have a point. She handed the camera to him tentatively, telling him over and over again to _please be careful and not break it_. He responded by assuring her he wasn't stupid enough to not know how to operate a camera, at least while sober.

"Hey fellas," George shouted. "Get in the picture."

Grace was immediately surrounded by the enthusiastic group of paratroopers, and a voice in the back of her mind screamed at her that Christopher would in no way approve of this. In fact, he would never consent of Grace getting on that train to spend a whole weekend in the company of a bunch of wild and carefree soldiers, most of whom were single. She hoped that when she eventually developed these photos, Christopher would not find them and jump to conclusions.

She was sandwiched in between her two favorite gingers, with Alex and Skip flanking them and Bull, Joe, and Guarnere behind them. Frank stood around awkwardly for a moment, not knowing where to place himself, before Grace seized him by the wrist and dragged him alongside her.

Her arms slung casually around Frank's and Babe's shoulders, Grace told George, "Whenever you're ready."

George counted to three and the group of Easy Company paratroopers surrounding her cried triumphantly, "Currahee!"

When they broke apart, Grace inquired of Joe Toye, "What's 'Currahee'?"

Joe flashed her an even-tempered, friendly smile. "'s our motto. Means 'stands alone.'"

"More than a motto, doll," Bill chimed in. "Our battle cry, to let them bastards know they're 'bout to get hell. Ain't no messin' around with Easy Company, right, boys?"

There were shouts and salutes of "No, sir!" and plenty of cheers and proud grins in the wake of Bill Guarnere's statement. Grace was beginning to feel more relaxed in their presence. She was forever grateful that they had allowed an outsider—a woman, no less, who had not endured training with them nor their baptism of fire in Normandy—into what she perceived to be a family, of sorts. She felt blessed.

The group decided to part ways until dinner, where they planned to meet up at one of their favorite restaurants. Skip, Alex, and Don went one way; Bull, Guarnere, and Babe another. Grace tagged along with George, Frank, and Joe, falling into step with the latter two while George ambled in front of them, lighting up a cigarette in the process. Frank and Joe exchanged a series of meaningful looks before nodding and giving Grace a little shove forward, where she stumbled in line with George.

George caught her arm and steadied her, cigarette hanging lopsided out of his mouth.

"Sneakin' drinks, Grace?" he teased. "It's barely noon."

Grace looked over her shoulder to glare at Frank and Joe, but they were suddenly very preoccupied by everything that wasn't Grace. Once she turned back around, they shared a smirk.

"I think you're the one who has to watch your alcohol consumption. You were drunk as a skunk the night we met."

"I'm at my most charming when I'm not sober."

She made a noise of disagreement and kept walking, snapping a picture of the cityscape. They continued on in relative silence for awhile, taking in the sights and sounds of London. Grace could have swore she heard Joe and Frank carrying on a conversation mostly in hushed tones and figured they were probably plotting something. Did George have his friends in on this to make her lose the bet, or were they just acting on their own accord?

"So this, uh…this fiancé of yours…what's his name?" George asked finally.

"Christopher."

"Sounds like an asshole."

Grace was offended. "You can't tell if someone is an asshole just by their name alone. You know nothing about him."

"I'm good at guessing," George explained.

"Oh, _really_?"

"Yeah. I bet he's a snobby rich kid with a stick permanently wedged up his—"

"Please stop."

"You only told me ta stop 'cause I'm right."

Grace lapsed into silence. She took another picture, though for the life of her she had no idea what she was focusing on.

"I knew it," George replied proudly, flicking the end of his cigarette away. "What's he do? I mean, what makes this guy better than me, huh?"

"Why are we discussing this?"

"Why the hell not?" George countered. "Look, all I'm sayin' is…if you're actually in love with this guy, you woulda said more about him than just tellin' me you're engaged. I don't give shit if you're engaged."

"I realize that," Grace said, throwing him a look.

"Just having a ring and bein' in love are two different things."

Grace was taken back. "You're a romantic now, are you?"

They crossed a busy street with Joe and Frank trailing behind, listening in on every single word exchanged between the two of them.

"Do you love this guy?"

"Of course I do. I wouldn't have accepted his proposal if I didn't."

George wasn't so convinced. He shook his head, but dropped the conversation entirely. Grace was thankful for that. She stowed her camera away for the time being and the four of them continue to amble down streets, searching for something to do. It was extremely crowded; Grace noticed a few 101st patches during their walk and wondered for a moment what company they were in. They also passed by some kind of argument going on between a paratrooper of the 82nd and a paratrooper of the 101st…

An hour and a half later, Frank and Joe conveniently decided to duck into a pub, leaving Grace with George—Grace suspected this was part of the foul plan they had been concocting while she heard their whispers. She really had no choice but to stick with him; she wasn't in the mood to drink right now and didn't want to wander off alone in London. She did a bit of window shopping, admiring the dresses that were too expensive for her to purchase, not that she needed one because of the uniform. She spotted a hole-in-the-wall kind of place that had all sorts of antique jewelry and stood gaping at the display in the front window.

"We _can_ go in, ya know," George smirked, already holding the door open.

Grace crossed the threshold and George followed, letting the door shut behind him. They were the only ones in the shop besides another woman and a young girl, probably around the age of twelve. The perimeter of the shop had glass display cases filled with pieces of jewelry, most of it looking much older than Grace had been alive.

George leaned in and whispered, "Smells like my grandma in here."

Grace tried to suppress her laugher. It certainly did carry a strong odor of old woman's perfume, enough to choke someone's lungs.

"Don't be rude," Grace whispered back, eying the elderly woman shuffling behind the glass cases.

"Grace. It's impossible for me _not_ to be rude," George said back in hushed tones.

They separated, Grace perusing through the various displays of antique jewelry and knickknacks, while George simply wandered around the shop trying not to breathe in too much old lady perfume and occasionally taking a peek at the jewelry in the glass cases. On one particular chance that he happened to look, George found something that managed to catch his attention. He leaned over the glass case and peered down at a necklace gleaming at him from its black velvet box.

George threw a fleeting look in Grace's direction. She was happily preoccupied with trying on some extremely hideous old lady hats and making equally ridiculous faces in a small vanity mirror. He wasn't very surprised by this. He beckoned the elderly shop owner over to make the transaction as quickly and as discreetly as possible, sliding the money across the counter and then stuffing the necklace in its lengthy black velvet box into his pocket for safe-keeping.

When he walked back over to Grace, she was inspecting a porcelain doll, and she still had some kind of oversized, flowery hat on her head.

"Please tell me you're not buying that."

"Why not? If I buy it will you stop pestering me to sleep with you?"

"Probably not."

* * *

><p>Around dinnertime, George and Grace met up with the rest of the group at a restaurant she figured was more than a bit pricey, which meant the guys were about to throw away some of their jump pay in exchange for a quality meal. She also happened to notice that the rest of them were already well on their way to getting drunk, which made for an interesting dining experience, to say the least. Between half of them attempting to make a move on a table of what appeared to be single women, to nearly all of them eating their weight in food, she had never experienced something quite like this, even with two older brothers. They were intoxicated, rowdy, and relaxed, which Grace knew had to be a relief after seeing combat.<p>

Grace was sure that the staff of the restaurant weren't too pleased to see them again, though they appeared to be used to the guys' antics. By dessert, the men were singing "Blood Upon the Risers" for the fifth time through at the top of their lungs, and she found herself accompanying them on the chorus and even most of the verses she'd picked up as the evening wore on. They had their fair share of wine, expensive, hot food, and nearly got themselves kicked out the restaurant for reciting drunken paratrooper cadences.

Stumbling into the night, the guys had managed to coax the ladies from the table in the restaurant to escort them for the evening. Somehow, Grace faded into the group fairly unnoticed anymore as the alcohol kicked in and the guys and the young women discussed the possibility of going dancing. Grace hung back and observed, wishing Christopher was here to dance with her if they did, in fact, find their way to a lounge or a club. She doubted he would take her up on the offer if he was here at this very moment, anyway, and fell into a miserable mood, all of the exuberance from the meal vanishing in an instant.

Grace trailed behind and wondered why she was so bothered by the fact that a skinny blonde was hanging all over George.


	6. Crazy Broads and GIs

**Disclaimer: Except for Grace, none of this is mine, and I would never mean any disrespect to the veterans of E. Company.**

**A/N: Please review, it'd mean a lot! The fun is just getting started in London…**

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><p><strong>CHAPTER SIX<strong>

Grace didn't know the name of the club they'd stumbled upon, but she did know that she no longer wished to be here, even if the band was playing damn good swing music. The guys and their escorts had grabbed a table among the crowds, but Grace had made her way to the bar instead. She wasn't sure why she was so adamant about avoiding them and why she was all of a sudden lonely for Christopher when she could barely write to him yesterday.

She was finishing her second beer—on top of the wine she'd consumed during dinner—and throwing miserable glances at the table where that pretty blonde woman was laughing at everything George said in a way that made Grace highly annoyed. That, and she couldn't seem to keep her hands off him. Not that Grace could blame her any, what with his sarcastic wit…dark eyes…and that fucking voice of his that made her—why did she care about this? Was it her not-so-sober state of mind, which was telling her the girl he was with was absolutely perfect in comparison to her? No, that couldn't be right. It didn't matter to her who George chose to spend his time with. He was single. She had Christopher—that's what it was, wasn't it? She was homesick and missing her fiancé.

But even as she started her third glass of the night and felt the effects of the alcohol coursing through her system, another part of her mind seemed to be screaming out in jealousy._ That_ part had no business toying with her. She wasn't allowed to be jealous of another man. She couldn't be. It wasn't right. She didn't need George—that blonde could have at him if she wanted to, as far as Grace was concerned.

_Fuck you, George_, Grace thought irritably, turning her attention to the music. The place was hazy with cigarette smoke and on the wooden dance floor, soldiers and civilians alike were moving their bodies rhythmically in typical swing dancing fashion. Grace had always wanted to dance to swing music but never had a partner. Tonight was no exception. Grace was determined to stay here for the rest of the night, as far away from George was possible, drowning in alcohol before eventually passing out. Or so she hoped, because she wasn't sure how she'd get through this evening otherwise, especially if George and that blonde found their way to a hotel somewhere.

The thought made her sick, which was ridiculous, because it shouldn't have. Maybe the alcohol had been a terrible idea, giving her all these awful thoughts… Grace set her beer glass down and left it there to sober up some.

"What're you doing all alone?" a voice asked, somewhere on Grace's left. She didn't recognize it. "You're the most gorgeous broad in this joint."

Grace rolled her eyes; she couldn't handle this again, not now. London had been a bad idea. Why did she agree to this? She turned on her heel and was met with a tall, sandy-brown haired GI. He didn't appear to be drunk, but he was certainly another sweet-talker who was more interested in getting her into bed than holding an intelligent conversation. Why had Christopher insisted on keeping her engagement ring at home? Was he some kind of idiot, Grace wondered silently. She was well aware of the ring's expense, but being an engaged woman overseas with nothing to show for it was becoming a regular chore.

"Better try your luck somewhere else," Grace advised.

Suddenly, he was very close to her, which was more than uncalled for. "Why don't we _go_ somewhere's else…" he suggested.

"I don't think so," Grace replied, louder than she'd intended. Alcohol didn't make her sloppy, just a little more obnoxious than usual. Although, tonight it was enabling her misery and making her cranky. "Find another girl."

Ignoring the boundaries of personal space between strangers, he wrapped his arms around Grace's waist and whispered into her ear, "I don't want nobody else. Just you, beautiful."

And then, before Grace could react, he was planting kisses along her jaw line and down her neck, his warm breath and tongue sweeping hungrily across her pale skin. Grace felt utterly violated and pushed hard against his shoulders, making him stop. He looked offended.

"Okay, that's enough, lover boy. I said no."

"You need a little convincing, is all—"

"I said _no_, what part of that do you not understand?"

The GI apparently didn't understand any of it because he pulled Grace against him, one hand sliding south to grab her rear end. Grace obviously didn't appreciate this in the slightest and pried his hand off her, trying to weasel out of the grasp around her waist.

"You asshole," she shouted at him, pushing into his shoulders again. "Leave me alone!"

No sooner than the words had left her mouth, a fist connected with the GI's face, knocking him back so he staggered and caught himself against the bar counter. Grace whipped her head around to find the owner of that fist, who was none other than George himself. The GI was dazed for a moment, but lunged forward to go after George. He was immediately stopped when Joe Toye and Bull Randleman seized him roughly and dragged him toward the exit, safely away from both George and Grace.

"Fucker," he growled, cradling his fist in his other hand. "What was he thinkin', grabbing you like that?"

"He wasn't," Grace answered. "Did you hurt yourself?"

"On that guy's thick skull, I wouldn't be surprised if I broke it. I'll be fine. You all righ'?"

"Yeah. Thanks, Prince Charming."

George smirked. "Drunk enough ta dance?" he offered.

"What about your date?"

He shrugged indifferently. "C'mon," he said, taking her hand. Grace couldn't ignore the way he held her hand in his while he guided her to the dance floor, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he wanted to and had been waiting all night to do so—or maybe that was wishful thinking. No, not wishful, Grace corrected herself, just an over analysis.

The band was playing a slow tune; George slid his arms delicately around her waist and Grace encircled her arms lightly around his neck, and they moved as much as the alcohol and cramped space around them would allow. George's hold was nothing like that GI's—he was careful and almost protective, even if he'd had much to drink. Halfway through the song, the skinny blonde located the pair and stalked over, completely furious.

"George!" she hollered, her accented voice shrill.

"Aww, Jesus," George muttered. They broke apart, and the blonde squeezed her way in between them.

"I'm gone for ten minutes and you already got some other woman?" she asked, insulted.

"He moves fast," Grace chuckled behind her.

"I think you're wrong," George replied to the blonde. "_You're _the other woman, sweetheart."

Grace didn't know quite how to take that, but the blonde's anger was increasing steadily by the minute.

George was met with a hard smack across the face. The blonde sauntered off and disappeared from sight. Grace couldn't contain her laughter, even as he rubbed his cheek where he'd been slapped. She could see, in the dim light, that there was a large red mark. Grace ran her fingers across his cheek, wincing.

"Be thankful it wasn't me who hit you."

He shook his head. "Crazy broad."

"Still want to dance?"

"Yeah, lemme get drunk first."

"I thought you already were."

"Not enough," George said.


	7. Dancing and Drunk

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything except Grace! This is a work of fiction for entertainment purposes only, no disrespect is meant to the real soldiers.**

**A/N: Hereby dedicating this fic to **bayumlikedayum**, who has been faithful reader and reviewer this whole time! Thanks to everyone who is reading! Also, shameless plug time: I revamped and renamed my Skip/Faye fic—now entitled "Tonawanda." I'd love for you guys to head on over and leave a review!**

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><p><strong>CHAPTER SEVEN<strong>

George was certainly drunk enough when he staggered back from the bar to where Grace was waiting on the dance floor. He reeked of beer and had that lopsided grin plastered on his face, deep brown eyes looking at Grace in a dreamy state. How he was even managing to remain standing in such a condition had to be some kind of miracle in Grace's opinion. She couldn't understand exactly how he was even functioning at the moment, let alone the fact that he was still eager enough to dance. But there he was, suddenly pulling her into his arms as the upbeat swing music filled the club once again.

He nearly fell into her—on purpose or because he couldn't see straight, she wasn't sure—and dropped her once or twice. That would have deterred any other girl from dancing with George, but not Grace. She was rather enjoying his company in this drunken haze. She hated to say it, but George could dance better while drunk than sober. Or maybe it was just more entertaining that way? In any event, she was having a good time now that all thoughts of that asshole GI and George's skinny blonde escort had disappeared. The thoughts of Christopher back home in New York City did not, however, and they still pestered the back of her mind, telling her it was wrong to be dancing with another man. But that was just it. Grace was dancing with George, but Christopher had never once danced with her in all the time they had been together. One week with George and she was already in London in a swing dancing club…

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><p>Back at the table, Bull and Joe had joined the rest of the guys after taking care of the GI who had been trying to stir up trouble. A few stern looks and a couple of threats from a few battle-hardened paratroopers (including the mention of Toye's brass knuckles) and he was off on his merry way, never to bother Grace or George again.<p>

"I coulda punched the guy but George got to him first," Joe was saying.

"Rule of thumb states that the fella gets first punch on the guy who's makin' the move on his broad," Bill Guarnere chimed in.

"Really? There's an actual rule?" Malarkey questioned, just to mess with Bill, as always.

"Sure there is," Babe replied. "You don't put your hands on another guy's dame like that."

"She ain't exactly another guy's girl," Perconte reminded them. "She ain't Luz's girl."

"Yeah, but how long d'you actually think she's gonna stay engaged?" Guarnere laughed.

"With Luz, I give it another week," Bull stated.

"No way," Skip piped up from the other side of the table, next to Malarkey. "That's too generous."

The guys shared a laugh—Skip definitely had a point.

"They make a good pair," Malarkey observed. "I think I'd like them together."

There was a murmur of agreement among the table.

"If Grace wasn't so stubborn," Perconte said. "And engaged."

"Frankly, I don't give a shit about whoever's waitin' on her back home," Toye declared. "I say we do somethin' about this."

"Like what?"

* * *

><p>On the other side of the dance floor, Grace was wondering how George was still leading her and spinning her around in circles without falling flat on his face.<p>

"Are you okay to keep going?" she asked over the music and chatter.

"You kiddin'? 'Course I'm all righ'!"

"If you say so…"

"I ain't gonna drop ya, Gracie!"

"You almost did—twice."

"Almost. _Almost_. But I didn', did I?"

George spun her around once more, and then leaned over, easing Grace into a dip, hands splayed across the small of her back to hold her. This one wasn't like the others, though, she learned quickly. He didn't let her up right away; he stayed like that, staring at her with warm brown eyes. Grace's own green orbs held onto his, silently contemplating what he was doing. She knew what it was that he wanted, afraid as she was to admit it. And Grace wasn't sure why her knees were growing weak; even if they were half glazed-over, George's eyes were piercing… Her mind screamed in a frantic state, _he's going to kiss me, isn't he?_

* * *

><p>This didn't go unnoticed by the table, of course, and as soon as they spotted George and Grace, they went into an uproar. From their angle, the pair of them appeared as though they were about to kiss, in what looked like a semi-romantic, mid-dance pose, despite that George was currently drunk as a skunk.<p>

"Are they gonna kiss?" Perconte asked, eyes wide.

"I dunno, nothing's happening," Penkala said, moving over to get a better view.

"Looks promising," Malarkey commented.

The table suddenly erupted into encouraging shouts and guys hoping George would do something_ right_ for once in his sloppy condition. None of the hollers from his fellow troopers would or could be heard by George, considering they were on opposite ends and the place was jam-packed. But that wouldn't stop any of them from trying.

"Is he gonna go for it?"

"He has to, or he's an idiot."

"C'mon, Georgie-boy, _kiss her_!"

"If he don't lay one on her himself, I'm goin' over there—"

"—and what, force them to kiss?"

"Shuddup, Malarkey."

"KISS HER!"

There was an overwhelming chorus of "Awwwww" once George let Grace up without planting a kiss on her lips. It looked like Grace had been the one to brush him off, but then again, George hadn't exactly made that move, either. The guys of Easy Company were disappointed to see the two of them leaving the dance floor and approaching their table.

"Ah, he's an idiot," Babe said.

"He wasted a perfectly good moment," Skip agreed.

"One kiss and Grace woulda been his," Toye said.

Grace towed George over to the table; the guys were positive that she was the only support keeping him upright now that the full effects of the alcohol were kicking in. George's crooked grin was even more sloppy and lopsided, his eyes glazed, his hold on Grace's waist very apparent.

"I think we're going to head in for the night, gentlemen," Grace announced. "See you tomorrow."

They watched the two of them walking away, shouting various "goodbyes" and "goodnights" at their retreating backs. George's arm was still hooked around Grace's waist, and she was doing the same, if only to keep George steady while they moved toward the door.

"There's still hope, fellas," Guarnere chuckled.

* * *

><p>The sudden burst of cool air once they stepped out into the darkened London streets was a welcome change and helped to wake Grace up a bit as she dragged George along. He was singing to himself now; Grace discerned it to be "Blood Upon the Risers," which was still stuck in her head from earlier.<p>

Grace was on the lookout for a hotel, somewhere relatively inexpensive, so George could crash and hopefully not land face-down on the curb. She wasn't sure how much longer he was going to be conscious. He was already becoming increasingly incoherent and could not walk in a straight line if Grace didn't guide him. It was a good thing he was being especially clingy. They walked in silence (beside the fact that George was humming) with Grace wandering around in search of a hotel, since George was too out of it to provide directions. Finally, she stopped some kind soul on the street and asked for a suggestion or two, and went on her way with George hugging her waist.

"Gracie."

"Yes, Georgie."

"_Gracie_…"

"Yeah?"

"Gra—"

"_What is it_, George?"

"I love you."

Grace shook her head. "Okay. Sure."

"I do, though. I love you. You're the best—"

"Save it, George. You're drunk."

"Don't you love me, Grace?"

She sighed, and contemplated how to go about this. "Of course, but not in the way you think."

"Oh that's righ'! Yeah. Yeah, you're in love with that lucky…lucky bastard in New York…" he mumbled. Grace didn't respond because it was no use arguing at this time of early morning, especially with someone who wasn't sober.

They were nearing the hotel, and at this point, George was content with his hold on Grace and proceeded to whisper things in her ear, things that were slurred and if she didn't know any better, in a different language entirely. Grace had only been exposed to French and Italian in her lifetime, as well as a touch of German, so she couldn't place it. She'd never heard anything like it, really; although it was quite beautiful despite the distortion from George's inebriated state.

"What are you whispering?" she asked. They entered the hotel lobby, which was vacant except for the receptionists behind the front desk.

"I ain't tellin'," George muttered before plopping into a cushy armchair and leaving Grace to handle their accommodations for the evening.

Grace was wary of letting him go—she didn't want him to pass out so she was stuck dragging him up to their room. For that precise reason, she kept throwing glances at him while she booked a place for them to stay. The receptionist did as well, but only out of amusement.

The hotel was booked pretty solid, except for a few rooms here and there. Grace didn't want to run the risk of them being on separate floors—he was heavily inebriated and she would have felt bad if something had happened to him. She had no choice but to book a single room for the both of them; it was only for one night, which was tolerable.

What wasn't tolerable was the fact that the room available only had one bed.

"Come on, George," Grace called, approaching him. He was half asleep, so she kicked him while simultaneously shaking him to get him moving again. He groaned in protest. "Get up. I don't want to and_ cannot_ carry your drunk ass up four flights of stairs. …That is an order."

"Yes, ma'am!" He saluted and shot up so fast out of the chair that he fell forward and would have toppled onto Grace if she hadn't moved in time. He stayed on the floor for two minutes, until Grace hauled him up into a standing position and started for the stairs.

"You are," he drawled, tripping over each stair instead of climbing them, "a real pal, Gracie. …I…I love you."

"You said that already."

"Did I?"

"Yes, twice, in fact."

"Third time's the…the charm, then," he laughed.

In the history of her life, Grace didn't think it had ever taken this long to get up four flights of stairs. With George falling up them, hugging her waist, stopping every five minutes, and continuing to profess his love for her in both English and another language Grace couldn't figure out, it was taking forever. By the time they got to the room, George was about to fall to the floor and not get up until morning. She had to throw open the door and push him across the threshold onto the bed.

"Ah, so _that's_ the way you wanna play, huh? _Rough_?"

Grace wasn't amused, not at three-thirty in the morning when all she wanted to do was sleep. "No, George, you're drunk. _You_ are going to bed."

She spotted a spacious-looking couch and thanked the heavens for its presence in their room.

"You gonna share the bed?"

"No."

"Awwww, you're no fun, Gracie. I won't be…able to…to sleep without you."

She rolled her eyes. "You've managed back in Aldbourne."

"_Please_?"

"Not a chance. Just go to sleep, soldier."

But George was climbing his way off the bed with much effort. "I'll take the couch, you take the bed."

"Chivalrous even when drunk," Grace observed. "I don't understand you, George Luz."

He tumbled into the couch in one of the most uncomfortable sleeping positions Grace had ever witnessed. George was still fully dressed in his Class A's and not even lying all the way on the couch cushions, his head lolling to one side, arm dangling over the back.

In a drowsy state, he mumbled, "'Night, Gracie."

Seconds later, he passed out cold. Grace shook her head, staring down at him with her hands on his hips, and wondered how he could possibly sleep in such a position. She grabbed one of the spare pillows from the bed and shoved it underneath his head. Then, she felt bad that he had fallen asleep in his good Class A's and jump boots (though he was more than used to sleeping in boots and a uniform, no doubt). Nevertheless, Grace carefully removed his uniform jacket and placed it over the chair in the corner; she loosened his tie and took that off, too, setting it aside.

Since he was completely out, Grace picked up his feet and heaved his legs onto the couch so he wasn't too uncomfortable. In the end, she decided to leave well enough alone—the boots were a pain in the ass to unlace and remove, so they were staying. Grace stood over him for a moment longer, letting a smirk onto her lips at the sight of his sleeping form.

"Goodnight, Georgie."


	8. Questions and Uncertainty

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything or anyone except Grace and Christopher. This is a work of fiction not meant to disrespect the soldiers of Easy Company.**

**A/N: Thanks for all of the reviews, guys!**

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER EIGHT<strong>

"'ey, George, any luck with Grace last night?" was Guarnere's first question when George sauntered down with a splitting headache the next afternoon.

George was surprised to see them present, though there weren't many hotels in the short walk from where they'd been last night. He would learn later that the group of guys waltzed into each hotel within walking distance and asked if a drunk paratrooper and a beautiful redhead booked a room there until they found the right one. George threw himself into a chair at the table where Bill, Babe, Perconte, and Malarkey were sitting, casually talking over lunch. The aromas of whatever they were eating made George's stomach turn. He folded his arms on the surface of the table in front of him and rested his aching head on top.

"I don't even remember last night."

"That good, huh?" Babe teased.

"Nothin' happened," George assured them, sounding slightly disappointed.

"Losing your touch?" Malarkey questioned.

"Nah," George replied, looking up and waving the notion off. "It's just this whole thing with her goddamn fiancé."

"Maybe she loves him," Perconte suggested.

George shook his head, disbelieving. "She ain't happy with this guy."

"Don't worry 'bout it," George advised. "She'll change her sweet little mind soon."

"If we got anything to do with it," Babe smirked.

George appeared confused, but there wasn't an opportunity to ask about it because Grace finally arrived at their table, looking refreshed but a little tired. She took one glance at George and smiled, resting her hands on his shoulders.

"Your drunk ass is a damn pain to take care of," she stated.

"Don't we know it," Malarkey replied. "Usually we just leave him wherever he drops."

Grace slid into a chair next to George. "That would have been the middle of a busy street. You'd be down a soldier."

"We wouldn't miss him," Perconte joked.

Head pounding a thunderous drum beat, George peered sideways at Grace with bloodshot eyes.

"You took care of me last night?" he asked, almost laughing, raising an eyebrow in suspicion.

"Yeah," Grace answered sheepishly. "You don't remember?"

"Last thing I remember is punching some fucker in the mouth. …And then waking up in some hotel room. Everythin' else in between isn't coming to mind at the moment. Maybe 'cause I've got a fucking massive headache."

Grace chuckled. "Well, you missed the part where we danced."

"Did we kiss?"

"_No_," Malarkey and Grace said at the same time, though his tone was more glum than Grace, who answered rather quickly.

"After that, we left for a hotel. Actually, to be more precise, _I_ left for a hotel and had to drag you along. You're one clingy little shit when you're inebriated."

"I don't apologize."

"Then you kept repeating that you loved me. And you were talking in some foreign language I couldn't place. It wasn't French or German or—"

"Portuguese," George groaned. "It was Portuguese."

"You remember now?"

"No," Perconte responded. "George speaks Portuguese when he's extremely drunk."

"Well, then," Grace replied. "Whatever you said, it sounded nice."

"Knowing him, it probably wasn't," Malarkey chuckled.

"All right, gents," Guarnere announced, "And lady," he added hastily, "We got a train to catch, so we better get our asses movin'."

* * *

><p>They met the rest of the group at said train station and boarded minutes later, having arrived just in time. On the ride back to Aldbourne, George was pretty adamant about Grace sitting next to him, and the rest of the guys helped matters by conveniently taking up all the other seats besides the one next to George. Grace threw them all dirty looks but they only smiled in return, settling into conversation with their buddies, forcing her to talk to him. Unbeknownst to her, the guys kept stealing glances at the pair of them, trying to decipher if things were going how they wanted them to. At first neither of them said anything and let the chatter and motions of the train fill their silence. Grace stared out the window and watched the cityscape of London fall behind them, replaced by countryside and smaller villages and towns.<p>

"I wish I remembered what I said last night," George laughed, finally breaking the silence.

Grace turned around to see him rubbing his eyes and the bridge of his nose—anything to try to relieve that headache pounding against his skull. For a brief moment of time, she felt bad for him. Then again, it was entirely his fault that he had consumed that much alcohol.

"Where did you learn Portuguese?"

"Family. Grew up with it."

"I'd never heard it before, or I would help you remember," she admitted. "The least I can guess is that maybe you were trying out every term of endearment known to man, considering you kept professing your love for me."

"Possible."

George groaned and leaned his head back against the seat, closing his eyes.

"Have you learned your lesson with alcohol?"

"No," George said. "I'll probably do the same damn thing next weekend. …Only if you'll take care of me again."

"I don't think so," Grace answered with a shake of her head. "Once was enough."

"You didn't even have to the first time," George replied. "So why did you? You coulda left me with the fellas to pass out at the table or somethin'."

Grace was suddenly at a loss because he was completely _right_ for once. She could very well have left him behind to venture out and go to a hotel for the night by herself. She could have left him to get blackout-drunk with his war buddies, and God only knew where he would have ended up then. She could have spent the night alone, in her own hotel room, sleeping soundly instead of waking up almost every hour to make sure George hadn't finally thrown up in his sleep. But Grace didn't. She had forced him to turn in for the night so he didn't consume any more alcohol, blackout on the dance floor, or fall flat on his face in the middle of a street somewhere. She assumed his friends would have taken care of him anyway, but for some reason she'd taken the initiative herself.

But why?

"I don't know," Grace admitted. "I guess…"

George's eyes suddenly fluttered open and he sat up straight, waiting on bated breath for her response. He knew she was reluctant to answer because the answer she was going to give would most likely put her one step closer to losing the bet. Not that George particularly cared about the bet anymore—it hadn't exactly been about the bet in the first place, if he had to be honest. He didn't give a damn about the money; that wasn't important. George had just simply wanted Grace to take notice of him. Now, he wanted Grace to give him a chance.

"What?" he encouraged, mischievous smile returning.

"I guess I would have been worrying about something bad happening to you."

George immediately looked pleased with himself. "You were _worried_ about me? Oh, Gracie, that is awfully kind of you—"

She smacked him on the arm. "_Shut up_!"

He couldn't stop laughing over this new piece of information. "I knew it! I knew you liked me after all."

"I never said that."

"What'd ya mean? Last night pretty much sealed that deal."

"You're so childish."

With that, Grace turned her attention to the scenery passing by them outside the window and ignored him. He was so infuriating and frustrating and she _hated_ how easily he was trying to read her; how he was making her question her relationship with Christopher and her own engagement. But maybe it wasn't George. Maybe she'd been questioning it long before coming to England and meeting him. He was just throwing it plainly into her face to see. Christopher and Grace had been having relationship problems for some time—Grace's new assignment with Easy Company and this indefinite period of time they had to spend apart was only making matters worse. She wondered what Christopher was doing right now, if he was as preoccupied with these nagging thoughts as she was. Was he still going to wait for her to come home? More importantly, did she still want the ring that was waiting for her?

Did they still _want _to get married?

Grace felt like she had no idea where they stood anymore. Sure, he'd said he wanted her to come home to him so they could finally have that expensive wedding he'd dreamed about but it didn't feel genuine. If he'd wanted her that badly, he would have forced her to stay, to not take the assignment and get married as soon as they possibly could. If he'd wanted her like he said he did, Christopher would have been more than willing to make love to her before she left him for an unknown span of time. At the airport, he'd acted like he barely wanted to touch her. Looking back on it now, it made Grace feel horrible and unloved.

What kind of healthy relationship was_ that_?

Grace wasn't sure if she wanted that engagement ring—let alone a wedding ring—anymore.

And it was all George Luz's fault.


	9. Answers and Freedom

**Disclaimer: I don't own anyone except Grace and Christopher. This is a work of fiction based on the character personas represented in the miniseries. No disrespect is meant to the soldiers.**

**A/N: Thank you for all the kind reviews!**

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER NINE<strong>

Grace didn't receive Christopher's letter in response to hers until well into the next week. By that time, she was too busy with her photography duties to take the time to open it and read it, so the letter sat on the dresser in her quarters, untouched. She wasn't so sure she wanted to read it anyway, much less write a reply. Everything she conjured up in her mind felt fake and insincere. Grace figured his would not be much better; probably a bunch of bullshit about how he wished time would move faster so she could come back home to him. Right now, Grace wanted to stay where she was and get lost in her work and the quaint town of Aldbourne. The English countryside felt more warm and inviting than their apartment in New York City could ever hope to be.

When Grace wasn't documenting training exercises and taking candid shots of the men of Easy Company on their down time, she was starting a project of putting together a catalogue of group portraits. Once they had a few extra moments, Grace would pull some of the men aside and line them up in rows in front of the Littlecote house. It would take a few tries to actually get everyone looking straight ahead with a smile, but they seemed to be turning out just fine. Grace hoped to get a decent shot of the entire company this way before their eventual departure from England. There were rumblings of various combat operations and jumps but nothing appeared to be getting the official green light…

Separate schedules and training usually kept Grace and George apart with no opportunities to talk, much to the disappointment of George's closest friends and George himself. Even Grace was slightly let down now that they only had time for a smile here and there and maybe an exchange of pleasantries in passing. He would still make attempts to get her attention if she happened to be watching them train, and Grace was finding it less annoying than amusing these days. It was a wonder that George was becoming more tolerable to her.

In the meantime, Grace had been trying to get a group photo of all the officers and the higher-ups in regiment. They were so preoccupied they never had a moment to spare. Plus, Grace was always a bit intimidated by the idea of asking them, especially because they were monitoring her presence within the company. Eventually, she got the right opportunity, assembled them all in front of headquarters, and took a few photos. As she was recording names and ranks, Grace was approached by none other than Colonel Sink, leader of the whole 506th PIR.

"Miss Esposito," he called in that unmistakable Southern twang, "D'you have a moment? I'd like to get a word with ya."

"Yes, sir, of course." She snapped her notebook shut and placed it in her bag to keep her full attention on the Colonel.

"I think it's a fine thing you're doing here," he began, "Very important job indeed. I understand you went through a lot to be assigned to Easy Company."

"Yes, sir, I did."

"Well, they need you here, and we need you as much as any one of those soldiers. I know at times you might feel unwelcome—some officers don't exactly appreciate what you're doin'—but I personally want to let you know that you're a mighty valuable asset to the ranks of Easy Company. I know you'll do some good here."

"Thank you, sir."

"You be careful, now, Miss Esposito. Once we get into combat, you'll need to keep your wits about ya and stay outta trouble. Are we understood?"

"Perfectly, Colonel. I don't intend for anything to happen. I'm just here to observe."

"I'd sure love to see those photographs of yours one day," Colonel Sink smiled.

"By war's end, you'll have them. I guarantee it."

"Pleasure talking to you, Miss Esposito. Keep up the fine work."

"Thank you, Colonel. I will."

Grace saluted him and watched his retreating back, her hands shaking from the encounter. She supposed there was no real reason for her to be especially intimidated by a man of such rank. He was as friendly as the next fella around here. She could tell how proud of the men and how devoted he was to the regiment. They were lucky to have such an exceptional leader and a good man to follow through this whole thing.

After taking the last of her notes and confirming names, Grace went back up to her room in the Littlecote house. It was a spacious place, all warm wooden walls and floral print on the bedspread, with sunlight pouring freely in from the window. From that window she had a spectacular view of the courtyard. The place made her feel like a princess in a fairy tale half the time, though she felt bad that the men had to sleep in converted horse stables. Sometimes, she wished she could stay with them, but the officers in regiment would never allow it.

Grace set her camera bag on the wooden armchair in the corner of the room and went over to the dresser where Christopher's letter sat unopened and gathering some dust. Part of her felt awful for ignoring it but she really did not have much to say to Christopher. She didn't want his phony declarations of love; she didn't want to stare at his meaningless chicken scratch writing on his generic stationery procured from his workplace. It made her furious. She had been thinking of him all week—of their relationship, of the few months leading up to her departure, of the way he had become less and less comfortable around her as the days wore on between them. The way he'd said the words "I love you" in the airport and how empty they sounded when they fell upon her ears.

She'd thought she had loved him before. It took miles upon miles of distance to separate them and some soul searching and finally a dash of one mischievous, persistent paratrooper with dark brown eyes and a lopsided grin to make her realize she didn't love Christopher anymore. It had been quite awhile since she'd actually said the phrase "I love you" to him and meant it with her whole heart. Christopher could keep that ring—Grace didn't want to be engaged anymore. She was now sure of this.

Grace made the executive decision to rip the envelope to shreds and dispose of it without ever reading his message. She wasn't going to honor him with a reply, and she wasn't about to break off their engagement through a letter. Once she returned to New York, she would tell Christopher in person that she no longer wished to get married; he deserved that much at least. Maybe enough time out of contact with her would help him see that they weren't right for each other after all. Maybe this assignment was the best thing to happen to her.

She still had George Luz to worry about.

Not that Grace was worried about him—unless he was drunk, of course. She just knew what she wanted now regardless of their bet.

* * *

><p>That Saturday, when the guys were on their weekend passes, most of them decided to stick around Aldbourne. Grace was lounging in her room trying to keep a list of everyone she'd recorded in group portraits and those she'd yet to photograph when there was a knock on the door. Grace hopped off the bed, smoothed out her uniform skirt, and slid into her heels before she answered the door, since she could never be sure if it was someone high-ranking. She was surprised to find Frank Perconte and Donald Malarkey standing in the hallway.<p>

"Frank, Don," she addressed. "What're you doing here?"

"George wants to see you," Malarkey told her.

* * *

><p>In the horse stables-turned-sleeping quarters, George was playing cards with Floyd Talbert, Smokey Gordon, Skip Muck, and Alex Penkala. He was losing horribly this afternoon, his thoughts far off and distracted in between games. He and Grace hadn't spent nearly as much time together as they had the week before, which was discouraging. George hoped she wasn't purposefully avoiding him, especially after their last conversation on the train from London. It didn't seem that way from their sparse encounters during the week, but with Grace, he never could exactly tell.<p>

In the middle of their seventh game of poker, Joe Toye and Bill Guarnere came strolling in looking like they were about ready to stir up some trouble.

"Hey, fellas," Joe greeted in his usual husky tone, cigarette between his fingertips.

"Want us to deal you in?" Smokey asked.

"Nah," Guarnere said. "Georgie-boy's got a date."

George turned around, eyebrow raised and cigarette hanging out of his mouth.

"Yeah? With who?"

"Grace—who else?" Joe smirked.

"I don't remember plannin' any date."

"That's 'cause ya didn't," Guarnere confirmed. "Now c'mon, you don't wanna keep a pretty lady waitin'."

* * *

><p>Malarkey and Perconte arrived in the town square of Aldbourne with Grace within minutes of Joe and Guarnere, who had brought a very puzzled George along with them. Bull Randleman had been waiting for both groups, a motorcycle borrowed from who-knows-where propped up at his side. He couldn't help but chuckle a bit at the look of both Grace and George's faces when they saw each other and realized they'd been lured here.<p>

"You kids have fun," Guarnere stated.

The guys walked away, leaving the pair of them confused and standing in the middle of town. When they were gone, Grace looked from the motorcycle to George and then back again.

"Did you know about this?"

"Not a clue," George answered. "Sneaky bastards."

"I'll say," she laughed. "So…shall we?" She gestured to the motorcycle.

"Yeah. Can't let a perfectly good motorcycle just sit here, ya know," George said. He climbed on, flicking up the kickstand with his foot, beckoning Grace to follow suit. She did so, settling herself on the back of the motorcycle behind him, her arms encircled tightly around his waist. She'd never ridden on a motorcycle in her life, but she was in England—it was time to try something new, start fresh.

"Do you have any idea how to drive this thing?"

He turned it on and revved up the engine, making the bike purr and hum to life. Grace's hold on his waist tightened.

"It can't be too difficult."

"Oh no."

"You don't trust me?"

"I don't know. If we get back in one piece, then I'll trust you."

"Yes, ma'am," he chuckled. "Let's get outta here."


	10. All Bets Are Off

**Disclaimer: I own Grace and nothing or no one else. I mean no disrespect to the real soldiers of E. Company when writing this work of fiction. **

**A/N: Thanks for the reviews, guys! They really help! I love this chapter. A lot. Just saying. **

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER TEN<strong>

George took off unexpectedly, provoking a scream from Grace as they raced past the picturesque stone-and-brick buildings of the town. Grace spotted Margaret, the café owner, waving to them while they whizzed by, and a number of soldiers also turned their heads to watch the speeding motorcycle and its passengers. They soon left all of that behind, exchanging it for the scenic English countryside dotted with vivid wild flowers and lush greenery. All thoughts of heading back into battle and training sessions and photography duties vanished from their minds as they gave into the absolute freedom of the moment. Grace couldn't help but keep a smile on her face; a terrible weight had been lifted from her shoulders and now she was carefree and happy. She hadn't noticed how much Christopher had been dragging her down until she met George.

He let the motorcycle carry them about ten miles out of town, enough distance to make them forget about it completely for the rest of the afternoon. George finally brought the motorcycle to a halt beside a wide stream that weaved its way in between two hills and could be crossed by a foot bridge. The clear waters shimmered underneath the gleaming sun and rushed over smooth stones and dirt; the sound was calming and peaceful, helping to ease their minds that much more. George hopped off the bike and helped Grace down. Before taking her by the hand, he draped his uniform jacket over the seat of the motorcycle.

George led her onto the middle of the foot bridge, where they both decided to stay for the remainder of their afternoon in each other's company. George settled himself against the wooden railing, one knee bent up, and lit himself a cigarette. Grace, meanwhile, kicked off her heels and sat across from him. They stayed like that for several minutes, silently enjoying one another's presence and the fresh air that surrounded them. George studied Grace closely as she leaned her head back and closed her eyes, smiling against the sun's warmth, red hair vibrant as ever. There was something different about her, he realized.

"What's got you so happy?" he questioned. "'Sides bein' in my charming presence."

Grace laughed and opened her eyes. "I decided something this week. Something I should have done awhile ago."

"Yeah? What's that?"

"I'm not going to marry Christopher."

That one sentence had the ability to make George's heart soar in an instant. He'd been waiting for this ever since Grace had told him she was engaged, because even back then, he knew she wasn't happy saying it. It was more of an obligation rather than a declaration she wanted to stick by. And that was exactly it—now she was happy. He could tell.

"Well, well," he smirked. "This have anything to do with yours truly?"

She laughed again. "Oh, it might."

George appeared to be very pleased with himself. "I believe you owe me fifty bucks, miss."

"Don't rub it in," Grace teased.

"So how long were you with this asshole?"

"Too long," she answered. "I think that was the problem to begin with. We'd been together for _years_ before he proposed. When he asked me to marry him, he was really the only man I'd ever been with. At the time, saying yes felt like the most logical thing to do. I loved him once…but we were together for so long that it seemed like we were growing bored of one another. We weren't in love anymore. I can see that now." She paused, sighing.

"It got to the point where he wouldn't touch me, didn't want to make love. Even after I told him I was leaving for an unknown amount of time and heading into a warzone. It made me feel…like he didn't care. Like I was unwanted."

George frowned, taking a drag on his cigarette. "Guy like that don't deserve someone like you."

Grace's cheeks reddened ever-so-slightly. "Anyway…I'm telling him first thing when I get back to New York."

He nodded, finishing the last of his cigarette. "What about your folks?" he asked suddenly, picking up on the hint that she no longer wished to talk about her ex-fiancé. "What're they like?"

"Well, Mom's this little fiery Irish woman," Grace chuckled. "Sweetest, most passionate and protective mother you will ever meet."

"And suddenly things make sense…"

"Dad's Italian, completely opposite. He came over from Italy when he was a boy, and has somehow maintained his incredibly thick accent to this day. He's a hard-worker, always has been. I'm his only daughter, so, as you can imagine he wasn't very pleased about my new assignment."

"Sounds like quite a pair," George guessed. "Italian and Irish. Jesus Christ, no wonder you're so…I dunno…_you_."

"Never a dull moment in the Esposito residence," Grace confirmed.

"That," he said slowly, "I can relate to. Try livin' in a house with nine other brothers and sisters. Lots of yelling. And swearing. In Portuguese."

"_Nine_?" Grace exclaimed. "Holy shit." She tried to picture nine other George-like siblings and instantly felt sorry for their parents—tolerating _one_ of them was enough.

"I kid you not," George grinned. "Miss the hell outta them every day, though."

"See, I've only got two other siblings, both boys," Grace explained. "They sure make enough noise to account for four people. …They look just like Dad. I was the only one—the baby—blessed with Mom's red hair."

"Remind me to thank your mother personally."

"Giuseppe is named after my father and grandfather—he's the oldest. I brought some pictures with me overseas; I'll have to show you later…And then Grant, he's the middle child. Grant's still back in the States. He got exempt from military service because he's working in a shipyard somewhere; I forget the name. Giuseppe joined up as soon as Pearl Harbor was attacked…he's off in the Pacific with the Marines."

"Shit," George muttered.

"He's all right for now, as far as we know. But I think about him a lot."

"…How're they gonna take it when you tell 'em you're not engaged anymore?"

"In all honesty, I think they'll be relieved. I mean, I got the impression Dad wasn't too happy with Christopher, him being a hard-working, lower class fella, and Christopher with all his wealth and luxury," Grace told him. It brought another grin to her face to be talking about her family. She didn't realize how much she missed them until just now.

"Think they'll be happier with a Portuguese paratrooper from Rhode Island?"

"You _do_ move fast," Grace joked. "I dunno, Georgie, you're going to have to get permission from my father first…"

"If that asshole can somehow get permission, I'm sure as hell gonna get it," George responded matter-of-factly. "I ain't interested in marriage just yet though. Gotta see if I like you enough, 'cause right now I'm not so sure."

Grace looked mock-offended. "Oh really?"

"Yeah," George continued flirtatiously. "You're kind of a pain in the ass."

"Are you sure you're not describing yourself?"

"Nah, it's definitely you, Gracie."

"All right. Because I didn't, you know, take care of you the other night when you didn't know up from down."

"But as I recall," George said sarcastically, getting to his feet, "You're the one who gave me a fake name, shouted profanities at me—not very ladylike, by the way—and almost made me get my ass kicked by some GI the size of a gorilla."

"I am so tempted to push you off this bridge right now."

"Oh, I feel threatened," George laughed cynically. " You're forgettin' that jumping outta planes is part of my job."

"I hate you."

"You only hate me 'cause I'm always right."

Somehow, the mock-argument ended when Grace chased George barefoot off the bridge and onto the bank of the stream, where she gave him a playful shove over the edge. He jumped into the water with a splash, soaking his uniform trousers and paratrooper boots. Grace studied him from the grassy shore, until George started kicking up the water in her direction, dousing the front of her uniform and face with cold water.

"Ugh! It's _freezing_!"

"Come in here," George said to her.

"No!"

"You pushed me. Now get your ass in here."

"No, fuck you."

"Gotta say, the profanity is kinda a turn-on…"

"Is that_ all_ you think about?"

"So is the soakin' wet uniform look…"

George finally tugged her in against her will, and Grace went toppling into him, causing both of them to fall into the water completely. Grace landed on top of George, who groaned when his back hit the rocks lining the bottom of the stream. She saw her garrison cap floating away and grabbed it, tossing the sopping wet material onto the shore after picking herself off of the grinning paratrooper.

Teeth chattering from the sudden contact with the cold water, Grace asked, "H-Happy now?"

"Mmm. Very," he responded, hauling himself out of the water.

He ran a hand through his dripping wet hair and untucked his button-up khaki dress shirt, which was clinging to his body. Grace was no longer pretending not to notice. She shed her own uniform jacket and threw it next to her garrison cap. George one-upped her by removing his dress shirt completely and tossing it beside her discarded clothing, exposing his toned chest and the dog tags hanging around his neck.

"We are _not_ playing this game," Grace declared in a stubborn tone, though she couldn't deny the look of appreciation sparkling in her eyes at the sight of a shirtless George Luz.

"You're forgetting something else."

"What?"

"You're not engaged anymore."

The look on his face was so suggestive Grace didn't know whether she wanted to slap him or kiss him. George took the initiative himself and scooped Grace swiftly out of the water and into his arms, carrying her bridal-style to the grass-covered shore, quietly thankful when she didn't protest the action. He laid her down on the soft, carpet-like surface and stayed hovering over her, which _she_ was silently grateful for, because she was freezing.

Warm, chocolate brown eyes surveyed her face, once again admiring the pattern of freckles across her pale cheeks, and gauging the reaction in her own emerald green orbs. Grace could tell he was asking without saying a word and waiting for her response. George pushed the damp strands of now dark red hair that clung to her cheek off with a sweep of his thumb—meanwhile, Grace couldn't find her focus, couldn't think of anything but the feeling of his body on top of hers and the heat it radiated, sparking and igniting once his palm rested upon her cheek. She didn't know how much longer she could stand it. How long was he willing to wait before he advanced? Because she couldn't wait anymore.

Grace's hand reached up to rest on the back of his neck, fingers kneading themselves into his short, dark hair, pressing his face ever closer to hers. When their lips finally met she could feel that smirk—that wonderful, crooked grin of his—against her mouth while their tongues danced in a passionate rhythm and their lips at last surrendered to each other. This was all George had wanted ever since he laid eyes on Grace in the Blue Boar, to know what it was like to kiss her; now he couldn't imagine _not_ kissing her. How could a man like Christopher have this gorgeous woman and treat her like she was unworthy of ever being touched with an ounce of passion or love or just plain_ want_? He couldn't imagine her being married to someone like that, someone who didn't appreciate her in the way she deserved. Decidedly, George realized, he could get used to moments like these between them if they never ended; his lips capturing hers and never letting go, skin upon skin, whispers of cynically-charged banter that he enjoyed so much floating back and forth.

After a few moments, George broke away, giving a light chuckle.

"You _definitely_ owe me fifty bucks."

"Fuck the bet, George," Grace whispered.


End file.
